


Afraid To See

by Helia (caretta)



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 11:41:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29998812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caretta/pseuds/Helia
Summary: Prowl wanted nothing to do with parties. Unfortunately, neither did Jazz.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52





	Afraid To See

**Author's Note:**

> Title from “Right Where It Belongs”, cause I’m in that kind of mood.

His fingers could not resist tap-tap-taping the screen of his datapad, even though it had turned off for over a cycle and, given that the night held a celebration, odds were that no further reports would come. 

It was always disorienting, coming out of his work haze. Time passed, people came and went, all somehow without his noticing. He could not recall the last time he had talked to anybody, even though he had detailed records of activities and locations for every personnel on base. Social calls would not register as strategically significant enough contact to land on the list, perhaps that was why. Still, he felt strangely empty. He was alone in his office, with nowhere to go and nothing to do. 

Perhaps he should fuel. Prowl had found that during downtime, which thankfully only happened rarely, he could orient himself by performing basic maintenance. He could not remember when he had last fueled, either, though his tank sat at a comfortable 31%, so it must not have been that long. He could head for the canteen, fill his tank, then figure his next move from there. 

The canteen, where Jazz’s sparkday party must have begun by now. 

Distantly, he could hear a loud pop, followed by raucous cheers. Even the walls of Prowl’s office started to thrum softly to dance music, the party was definitely in full swing. That decided it, then. Prowl would sit here, read until the night was over, then sneak to the dispenser after everyone had gone to bed. 

He flicked the datapad on to change tomorrow’s scheduled shifts, based on the likelihood of who would be the most hungover and least able to perform duties after tonight. The “fully capable” list was depressingly short. Prowl put his own name in three surveillance slots, just to maintain baseline security. 

“Huh, solid, that leaves your afternoon free for a drive with me. Take Sides out of patrol though, I just saw him do a keg-stand.”

Prowl, as a matter of fact, did not startle. If he cracked his datapad, whipped out his gun and shot twice in that direction, it was purely because he was mad. 

“Get back,” he said, completely out of friendly and professional concerns. “Your party is waiting.”

“Aww baby, way to break a mech’s heart,” Jazz said, flicking plaster off of his plating, like it was normal for him to appear out of the corner of Prowl’s office like he had been there for cycles. May be he had, and Prowl just didn’t notice. 

Prowl clicked the safety on, but did not put his gun away. 

“You have two kliks. Explain.”

Jazz shrugged. 

“I’m not much for parties.”

He did not wait for Prowl to laugh in disbelief, which Prowl did not do, but began to walk around, picking things up, turning them this way and that, generally acting like a tourist in a depressingly small and stark museum. Knowing Jazz, he probably had named several exhibits. “Petrex, A Protracted History”, “The Frowns on Prowl”, “Ooh, What Does This Hidden Button Do?”, and other Jazz-esque things. 

“Insufficient detail. Please elaborate.”

“Fine, fine,” Jazz turned around, swiping the gun into subspace before Prowl even realized he was left holding air. “Parties are loud, drunkards are terrible,” he said, by way of explaining why he was suddenly sitting on the edge of the table, right in front of Prowl. “Wanted quiet, needed you.”

Something was clicking into place now. 

“Are you...” Prowl hesitated, as Jazz showed no outward sign of being inebriated. His smile was quick, he moved with usual grace. And yet—

“Oh, totes,” Jazz tossed back, easy, tilting his head as if to appraise Prowl from a strange angle. “Y’know, you look even prettier from here. We really should—“

“Denied,” Prowl pushed his chair back, wanting nothing more than to out-walk his sudden bout of spark-sickness. His evening could be salvaged yet. Wheeljack’s pending inventions list had been gathering dust in his habsuit for joors, perhaps he could—

“It’s not serious, ya know?” Jazz’s acoustics caused a strange resonance between his wings, the way nobody else’s voice could. When Prowl turned, Jazz wasn’t looking at him. 

“It doesn’t have to be. You’ll always be free with me, promise.”

There were two ways to parse that sentence, but Prowl did not ask him to clarify. Jazz continue to stare out the windows, his features bathed in moonlight, distant and unreadable. Prowl made himself think. He could have an evening to himself, or, or—

More cheers coming from down the hall. Looked like Prowl wasn’t getting his fuel tonight. 

“Fine,” he said, unintentionally repeating Jazz’s word. “Fine.”

***

Prowl could not deny the position gave him a little thrill. 

Contrary to expectations, all heat rushed to his face. He put one lingering hand on Jazz’s bumper, warm metal not making the scene any less surreal. They were sprawled on the floor of Prowl’s office, the carpet in front of his desk generous enough to accommodate their frames. Prowl did not understand why he was doing this at all. He only knew that the moonlight seemed to disappear into Jazz’s visors, and his self-control with it as well. 

His fingers were nowhere enough. He did not let Jazz touch him, batted his hands away, his insistence on this last shred of dignity seemed petty and childish even to himself. Still he could not help but wonder how it would feel like, to have Jazz hold him, as well as fill him. To _have_ Jazz, and—

Prowl gritted his dentae and sunk himself down. 

The soft silicon strained, struggling to open fully around the tip of Jazz’s rod. Prowl made himself lift up, sink down again, one hand holding Jazz in place and another reached around to spread himself. He needed— needed to do this, if only so that later he could tell himself that it happened. So he would have no regret. If he could have nothing else, at least he could give himself this. 

Jazz’s brows were pinched, the tightness wasn’t easy on him either. Except of course, Jazz was drunk, while Prowl wasn’t and thus had no excuse. Out of nowhere, Prowl surged up to taste that oil. Something bright and bubbly, celebratory, exactly what he imagined a drink at Jazz’s sparkday party would taste like. He kissed Jazz as he fingered himself; desperate to feel, to remember, to taste. One night, then he would never, ever let himself be this weak again. 

“Prowler...”

He felt one hand rest against his cheek, then curl at the back of his head. Prowl shuddered. No, this was a bad idea. But that simple touch made him shook with want, and this time when he moved his hips Jazz slid right in, easy. One by one, his circuit rings opened up and connected, the sparks traveling up their spines to spread all over their systems. Jazz’s fans turned on, wafting hot air from his vents onto Prowl’s bumper. Prowl clutched the carpet in a dead grip, doing calculations to relax, to not linger on how full he was, how good it felt. Their circuits had lined up — for now, he had Jazz. 

When Prowl sat up straight to move, he felt like his consciousness had fallen out of his body. His own rod had pushed out too, erect and wet with lubricant, yet at no point did Prowl consider touching it. He wasn’t doing this for— for pleasure, even though friction against his inner walls was pleasurable. He didn’t want to end this too soon. He only wanted to be here, squeezing around Jazz, watching his visors glow and his face grow soft with a smile. Jazz liked this, he liked Prowl. “You look even prettier from here.” If that was all Prowl was good for, then—

A hand seized him. 

Jazz pulled him down. Like before, a hand curled around his nape, and Prowl was either going to yank away or cover it with his own hand and keep it there forever. “Fuck,” Jazz used a Terran curse word, pulled him so Prowl could move with their foreheads pressed together. “You’re not allowed to look like that. You’re— Prowler, I’m too drunk for this. You can’t do this when I’m too fucked to r—“

A moan from Prowl cut him off. This angle was bad, this angle was making Prowl lose whatever control he had left of himself. Jazz must have realized that too, because his arms closed around Prowl like a vice, pressing their bodies together and then he _thrusted_ , trapping Prowl’s moans by his shoulders. Prowl couldn’t— he couldn’t even tell if it hurt, if that was why he was crying, but Jazz was holding him so tightly, and that was all he wanted, all he needed. So he held on and spread his thighs and rode the wave after wave of their connection, his consciousness fraying by the nanosec, until all he could feel was Jazz, his arms and his smell and his warmth all around him, spreading inside of him. 

***

Severely, Prowl had overestimated his ability to detach emotionally. He laid on the carpet in Jazz’s arms, and he ought to move if he wanted any hope of fulfilling his duties tomorrow. And yet, Jazz had a way of defying his reasons. Even if his chest still felt hollowed out, the pleasure and the warmth had reduced that emptiness into something dull, like having a limb cut off under anesthetics. Prowl recognized a losing battle when he saw one. Sometimes reasoning just could not win. Sometimes all he could do was lay in silence, and wait for the hour when he realize how thoroughly he had been destroyed. 

Jazz shifted. 

Prowl’s spark clenched violently. He made himself lie still, dug fingers into his palm so as not to show he was terrified. But Jazz did not leave. Instead, he scooted a bit down, so that his head could burrow in-between Prowl’s wings. Prowl felt him vent deeply there, the vibration, however small, made Prowl’s entire body shudder. 

“Hey, I ain’t letting you walk away yet.”

Jazz mumbled, he must still be drunk. Prowl wondered how his face looked like now, wondered if he would ever have the chance to see Jazz like he did just a few hours ago. Not the popular, invincible, mercurial Jazz, but one lonely mech asking for company on a moonlit night, hiding from his own party. Prowl knew he was never anybody’s first choice, so he must take whatever favor anyone would give. This night, due to a drunken haze, Jazz had picked him. It was better than anything Prowl could have hoped for, he ought to be happy with that. 

“I’ll leave in the morning, I promise. You’re still— you’re still free. Don’t think too hard about it, Prowler, your secret’s safe with me.”

Yes, he could always count on Jazz to keep uncomfortable secrets. Prowl’s tears belonged to this night, it was his alone. Tomorrow he would go back to his duties. He could even accompany Jazz on his drive, and successfully pretend that Jazz did not just rend his spark to pieces. 

At that moment, the thrumming stopped. 

The music had died. 

End.


End file.
